A Thousand Shades
by drinktea
Summary: A collection of Balthier & Fran shorts. Aims to show the many, many aspects of their relationship and beyond. Ongoing.
1. Comfort

_Disclaimer: FFXII is Squenix's._

Summary: He's gotten good at hiding because she's good at finding.

**Comfort**

A Viera is gifted naturally with astounding senses. The smells and sounds they could detect would bowl a human over, make them quiver with shock.

Balthier usually found this a very useful trait in Fran (though it certainly was not why they were partners). As of now though, it was all he could do to not cry because of them. (Cry out, cry tears, whatever.) 

She sat in the co-pilot seat of _The Strahl_, those ears twitching with the effort to not twitch.

She could very clearly detect something was wrong with him, but did not want to make it apparent that she knew. Absently, he wondered what sadness dredged up from a person's past would smell like. She most certainly knew, but he wasn't about to ask.

Her hands moved fluidly over the controls.

Could she hear his heartbeat, ask it to pump out his secrets? Could she communicate with the wind, guide it to blow his dreams from his tangled mind into her open palm?

Her eyes were something different. Worry was evident in every bit of them, gliding over his slouched form, his hair in disarray, his hands moving hypnotically.

He'd thought he'd gotten better at this. Hiding. He couldn't hide anything from her because of those canny senses. She'd taste the tears in the air, falling, a mile away. Feel the broken child hiding somewhere in the man. She exposed him to the biting reality of it all. She wouldn't let him shove it down and lock it away.

Unable to ignore it any longer, she stood. 

"Balthier. What is the matter?"

His eyelids fluttered shut. When he heard her question, he knew he had to answer. He buried his face in his hands, forceful and smudging his palms into the bones of his face.

She came to him. In a strange display of tenderness (but _oh_, was it appreciated), she told him, "I'm here."

And then he knew that she didn't tell how he was with a whiff of him or a careful glance. She could tell because she was Fran, and because she cared.


	2. Love Leaves No Room for Apologies

_Disclaimer: Balthier and Fran do not belong to me, but to Square Enix._

Summary: It bothers him that they don't kiss.

**Love Leaves No Room for Apologies**

When they'd met, Balthier was a young man on the edge of leaving his world. He was Ffamran, Judge, prodigy, whatever you wanted to label it. Either way, he didn't want that life anymore.

Fran was beautiful to him. She was everything he had never seen. She wasn't people yelling day and night, she wasn't rank beneath a perfect surface. She was strong, pure, she made no apologies. She was perfect.

When he touched her shoulder he was afraid he'd taint her. He thought he might see a black poison creep along her skin and engulf her.

She turned her red eyes on him. No such thing happened.

When they had met much in the same way once, twice, thrice, four times, he was already eighteen. He'd followed her through her travels, intent on finding something deeper with her. He didn't know what he wanted exactly. He was almost willing to take whatever she'd give.

What she gave him were bruises. Scratches, bites. This one - their first. She dug into his back and left four punctures, each equally painful and gratifying. This one - their second. He'd thrown her against the wall of her room, and she'd thrown back. He hit the edge of the windowsill. He didn't close the blinds, just sat and waited for her to come. This one - their third. He could go on forever, he remembered every one.

What bothered him was that for all they'd done, never had they kissed. It had been two years already. Two years as pirates, as partners. As lovers. Their lips had never met.

One night after a difficult raid, he was poisoned. The wound was ugly, cauterized right upon contact. It stood out bright against his skin, right next to a scar she'd left two weeks ago. 

She'd laid him down with an elusive gentleness. Not to say that she was brutal, she wasn't. Emotion was just something she escaped often. He didn't know it, but she escaped it most around him because she felt the need to.

She was turning around to go when he reached out, brushing the skin of her wrist.

"Fran," his voice was drooping pathetic.

She took a deep breath, masking it behind exasperation. "What is it?"

The antidote chased the poison in his veins. "Stay with me." 

She turned back around to meet him halfway. He tugged, weakly, on her hand, and by a miracle unforseen, she leaned down to him. She was so close.

He looked druggedly at her, his irises cloudy. "Fran. Mmm."

She sighed, almost rolled her eyes at his behaviour. Was she losing her patience? Hm. It'd turn out alright.

"Why don't we kiss, Fran? Hmm?" he continued blindly, on the edge of delirium. His voice was so quiet, a hume wouldn't have been able to hear him. "I've never kissed you, you've never kissed me. We've never kissed each otherrr..." 

In a teeth-crushing movement, her lips were on his. It was heated and completely blinding, so very like Fran. This side of her was only known to him, and he loved it, loved how others pondered its secret.

They moved with each other almost clumsily. Absently, he felt her fingers twine with his. Such a first kiss. He wanted to be voracious, give back as much to her as she was giving him, but he was too weak to find the strength.

When she pulled away, he felt something pass from her lips to his, and understood. The mixture in his blood had formed a tincture to make him sleep. He saw, blearily, how sad she was. There were tears on his cheeks. Were they hers or his?

Hm-hmmm. He would pay her back later, a thousand times.

He fell asleep with her there, a smile on his face. 

-----

_Author Note: The idea for the, erm, wounds was inspired by akisawana's "100 leitmotifs, blue moon"._


	3. Control

_Disclaimer: FFXII is Squenix's._

Summary: Despite his insistence of Leading Man, you both know the truth.

**Control/It Takes Two**

He is really very bad at this. 

You repeat this to yourself maybe five times, watching him tentatively grip levers and look down at his feet, making sure he has the right pedal. Oh, the dear gods.

"Balthier, we should find a different--"

"Nonsense, Fran! She is beautiful! Perfect! She is a fresh woman, ready for a spin!" he exclaims loudly, earning the glances of the engineers nearby.

You pinch the skin between your eyebrows. Why do you keep him around again? You are perfectly capable of carrying out these missions out yourself, and you'd keep the whole bounty. And most of your sanity as well.

Why, why, why. You almost want to knock your skull to remember.

"Fran, take a seat in the co-pilot's seat! It's made for you! The back isn't high, so your ears won't feel restricted or what have you!"

You remember suddenly. It takes two to pilot an airship.

But no, that's not really the reason. You walk towards the thing, and he looks genuinely happy, a child in a candy store. Of course he has to be the pilot, anything less for a Leading Man would be unfitting. (Really, he knows it's because you let him _because he wants it._)

"Fran, my beauty, imagine us." He holds up a palm to the sky, his gaze wistful. He makes it impossible to not laugh. Somehow you manage it, and board the ship.

"Imagine us traversing the skies in this." He has a hand on a hip, the other still up, and he looks truly ridiculous. Still, he makes it work. "This is the only ship worthy of us. Its beauty almost rivals our own--" 

"Balthier," you cut him off in your quiet voice. 

He raises his eyebrows in question.

You give a succinct nod of your head. "We'll take it."

The smile grows across his face.

And then you remember. For he could do this on his own as well, and the two of you would then be rivals. But you come together because you can, because it's better than perfect. He leads, you lead, it's the best balance. Because each of you settles for nothing less.

He fiddles with the controls, exclaiming of your future adventures. You reply, sitting down in your seat. He's right - it's perfect.

You're partners because every moment is better.


	4. A Brief Overview

_Disclaimer: FFXII is Squenix's._

Summary: Skypirating, Fran & Balthier style.

**A Brief Overview**

Skypirating requires the utmost precision.

"FUCK!"

Balthier almost, _almost_ didn't cut it.

"_BUNANSA!_" the director hollered bloody murder.

He held his hands up in the universal 'don't hit me' gesture, then immediately lowered them. He was still holding the weapon of offense. "Sorry, Kek. Any chance you'd--" 

Kek gripped his nose. "GET OUT! _OUT!_"

And Balthier was handed another chance to perfect his hit-and-run technique.

When he arrived, out of breath, in front of a distinguishable set of armour, he repeated the gesture.

The Viera had no trouble seeing, but her eyes narrowed out of disbelief at what she saw through the window of the shooting range. "... did you--"

"Yes," he panted.

"In the nose?"

"Yes," he brushed his own perfect nose.

"Again."

He jammed his gun, the barrel still warm, into its holster. "... Yes." 

Afterwards, Fran gave him lessons for a month, to which he pouted.

-

Skypirating also requires the rare ability to play it by ear.

"Well, we seem to have gotten ourselves into a jam this round, Fran," he said to approximately six guards that formed half of the surrounding circle. A gold chain hanging from his pocket quivered.

"It would seem to be so," she replied softly. Her soft-spoken attitude in moments like this made him grin. The guards would smile among themselves, thinking they'd caught a pair of novices.

Then their mythril would fly from their hands and their faces would greet Balthier's soles.

They stalked quietly through the passageways. 

"Interesting style you chose."

"Well, they were close range."

"Hm."

"I figured it was either your kicks or mine," he told her. He then, with a comical cynicism, silently felt sorry for whoever met the stilettos of Fran's heels.

-

Above all, skypirating requires a distinct sense of style.

"Fran." 

Having a hoverbike made this pretty hard to not accomplish. 

"Yes," she replied, sensing his request already and slowing down. She parked perfectly on the first try, as she had done and would do for the rest of her skypirating career.

Balthier jumped off the vehicle, landing lightly on his feet. He swung his gun over his shoulder, keeping its barrel against his armour, his bracelets jostling together.

Fran dismounted, the veil across her stomach swaying and brushing ornate armour. She carried her bow at her side as a long-time warrior was wont to do, emanating strength.

"Well, look what we got here," a captain spit, appearing out of nowhere, a squad trailing behind.

They looked up in tandem, unthreatened. Balthier piqued his eyebrows.

"A pretty boy with pretty armour. And a pretty Viera with pretty armour." His men called out crudely.

Balthier piqued his eyebrows at Fran. She tilted her head.

So fast no one could see, the pirates blew past. Balthier straightened a leg to kick the captain in the behind, still running. The captain stumbled and fell with a clatter, his nose bleeding.

"It's called style," Balthier informed them, not looking back, speed too great to match.


	5. Certainty

_Disclaimer: The FFXII crew belongs to Squenix._

Summary: The Wood wants her back.

**Certainty**

_"She misses you,"_ Jote had said.

Fran had written it off then as a protective lie. It was too strange a concept to grasp. The Wood... missing her. Wanting her back. All Viera had been taught a knowledge, one to keep for all their lives, and to pass from generation to generation.

Those who left could not return.

Her connection to her birthplace had died, her gift a long-time memory. And it time, too would her physical connections fade, her sisters. And then she would fade herself.

_"She is jealous of the humes who have taken you,"_ Jote had said, a subtle nod at Balthier's turned back. Balthier felt the implication, no matter if he had heard it or not.

It was true - Fran walked the world of the human now. And she was glad that she had found in one of them a true sense of belonging. Of comraderie. Of unconditional acceptance. His easy grin flashed across her perfect senses. His smell took root in her memory.

And yes, Fran knew it then - the Wood _did_ miss her. But even though the Wood might miss, the Wood might pine, her connection might fade, her life might end, Fran knew one other thing.

And that was him.


	6. With Or Against

_Disclaimer: Balthier and Fran are Square's. This makes me immensely sad, as you can imagine._

Summary: Where do you draw the line?

**With or Against**

"Fran, would you mind... perhaps not being so brutal?"

"This was your request."

"I-I know. It's just more difficult than I imagined," he attempted a laugh, then winced at the screech of pain that shot up his arm.

She smirked at him. Such a human expression on such an exotic face never failed to stun him really. Actually, when he thought about it, she had pratically made the expression her own at this point. Any other smirk on any other face could never possibly compare to-- aaaggghhh.

She could detect it on his face. "You may also request for an end to this." 

"Oh no," he maintained, though with a twisted grimace, "I'm seeing this through to the- the _real_ end." 

She leaned back nonchalantly, almost to tease him. She could be so cruel.

Which was why he picked her, of course. Or why she picked him. His brow wrinkled temporarily at the wording. Whatever.

They were good together, and that was that. One couldn't deny that they were the best in the business, and they did not come by that through sentimentality. Each drove the other, hard, but they understood where the line was drawn. The line for business and non-business was somewhere around splitting loot. If either needed a potion or ether or what have you, they split the cost. (If Balthier needed bailing out of jail or what have you, Fran easily found and used his money. In his defense, it was quite early on, and it had only happened once and by a complete misunderstanding.)

The line between the past and the present was approximately between Balthier knowing how Fran felt about leaving the Wood and not telling a soul. It also fell between Fran knowing _exactly_ why the price on his head was so high and breathing the knowledge to nobody. Boundaries were not made - they were understood. Only Balthier could truly guess at Fran's age. Only Fran could tell you why Balthier wore rings on his left ring finger.

Which led to the next line. Where partnership and friendship came in contact, the line was blurred into nonexistence. Once, Balthier had neglected his own wounds to tend to Fran's. Any other partner would've realized that they themselves would have been made useless by their wounds and thus effectively ruin the idea of a partnership. But he was her friend. He'd been given many a tight-lipped reply after that incident. He knew it was just because she cared about him, and she knew he knew. He was glad for it all in the end, really.

The bond they forged led up to today. Fault lines were created now and again (the above situation), but they were always repaired to hold a million times more weight. They would keep on going.

"Fran, I really admire your endurance," he said, chippy, trying not to clench his teeth.

"Thank you," she said, trying not to enjoy his expression too much.

His strength folded, and she drove him down.

He let go of her hand immediately, shaking it with much drama.

"Oh, come now. I wasn't that difficult to go against."

"Ahhh," he moaned with relief, stretched his fingers as far as the bone would allow. "I must say. We are much better together than we are against each other."

"You're saying that because you lost." She smirked at him again.

And thus, Balthier learned that for all the things he did share with Fran, he should draw the line at an arm-wrestle.


End file.
